


5 Times Bucky Wished Steve a Happy Birthday + 1 Time he Didn't

by miserably



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Birthday, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 15:51:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15777228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miserably/pseuds/miserably
Summary: The story of Bucky and Steve's journey from playmates to brothers-in-arms, told through six of Steve's birthdays.





	5 Times Bucky Wished Steve a Happy Birthday + 1 Time he Didn't

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RamandaWart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RamandaWart/gifts).



> Happy birthday RamandaWart!! Sorry if this is a little rough -- I am writing for the person who usually edits my stuff, after all -- but I hope you enjoy nonetheless :)

 

**July 4, 1928**

Bucky loved baseball. He loved the rush of adrenaline he got stepping up to the plate during a pickup game, sizing up the pitcher and readying his swing. He loved summer evenings spent crowding around a battered radio with the other boys who lived on his street, listening raptly to the crackle of the announcer’s voice as it gave them the rapid play-by-play of a Dodgers victory. He loved baseball. But he decidedly did _not_ love standing around in left field on what must have been the hottest summer day in history, thoroughly trapped in the most boring street baseball game of all time.

“Come on, just throw some _strikes,_ ” the batter whined, squaring his shoulders to the plate. “My ma’s gonna worry when I don’t come home for dinner until next _year_!”

The pitcher, however, seemed entirely unfazed by the heckling. He was focused instead on a commotion taking place on the stretch of curb that constituted the opposing team’s dugout. A few of the boys waiting their turn to bat had stood up to confront a newcomer, a boy whose skinny shoulders and small stature made him appear much younger than anyone else on the field. As Bucky watched, one of the older boys said something through a sneer that made the newcomer’s hands curl into fists. Glancing around to see just how sluggishly the game was progressing, Bucky figured he might not be needed for a little while. He abandoned his post in left field and jogged over toward the confrontation.

“What’s goin’ on?” He asked with an air of false bravado, surveying the scene before him. The smaller boy looked ready to start throwing punches at the other boys – a fight that Bucky, considering the differences in number and stature of the parties involved, couldn’t foresee ending well. He hoped his intervention might spare them all from finding out for sure.

“This little kid’s tryin’ to join our team,” one of the boys explained with exaggerated scorn. His friends were quick to pile on.

“Aren’t you a little young to be away from your ma?”

“Sorry, kid, you gotta stop wetting the bed before you can think about playin’ ball.”

“I do _not_ wet the bed,” the smaller boy snapped, trying to draw himself up to match the height of the other boys and falling almost comically short. “I’m ten years old, I can take care of myself!” Something in Bucky’s heart twisted at the sight of this kid, standing up for himself even in this clearly losing battle. He couldn’t help but speak up, almost before he’d processed the boy’s words.

“Hey, hey – wait, you’re ten? Since when?” That meant that the boy was barely younger than Bucky, even though he looked much smaller.

“Since today,” the boy muttered sheepishly, loosening the fists he held defensively at his sides.

“Well, happy birthday, then,” Bucky crowed, trying to keep a smile plastered on his face even as he felt the other boys’ hostility rising to an inevitable breaking point. “Why don’t ya quit bein’ assholes, guys, just let the kid play.”

He meant to go on, but he was interrupted when he heard his teammates on the field screaming his name. Wheeling around, Bucky realized that the game had resumed without him, and the ball was now rolling past left field without anyone there to stop it.

“On second thought,” Bucky muttered, raking a hand sheepishly through his hair, “It’s too hot to play ball today anyway. C’mon, kid, what d’ya say we find somethin’ better to do?” And slinging an arm around the boy’s bony shoulders, Bucky marched him away.

“I’m James, by the way,” he said, once the sounds of shouting voices and scuffling feet were merely a distant echo. “James Barnes. But my, uh – but people call me Bucky.” For a moment, the boy didn’t reply. Realizing his arm was still slung a little too protectively over the kid’s shoulders, Bucky quickly released it, busying himself by peeling off his sweaty baseball glove.

“Steve,” the kid finally said, sticking out a hand for a surprisingly firm handshake. “I’m Steve.”

 

 

**July 4, 1931**

Bucky was by no means an unhappy kid. He loved playing ball and reading comics, loved his ma’s cooking and teasing his little sisters. Despite this, nothing ever made Bucky happier than bounding up the stairs of a particular apartment building two at a time, bursting with excitement as he neared the door at the end of the hall on the 4thfloor. It wasn’t the ritual itself that filled Bucky with giddy excitement, but the end result; seeing Steve. Ever since that day on the baseball field, none of the happiness Bucky felt in the other areas of his life could quite compare to what he felt when he was with Steve.

After knocking briskly on Steve’s door, Bucky bounced on his toes in an unconscious attempt to release his nervous energy. He was always happy to spend time with Steve, but today was different. It was Steve’s birthday, and Bucky planned on making it special.

The door swung open to reveal Steve’s mother, thin and blond, arms crossed sternly over her chest but unable to conceal a soft smile. She knew that Steve tended to get into trouble with Bucky around, but that Bucky would be there to protect him every time it happened.

“You boys behave yourselves,” she lectured as Steve appeared in the doorway. “I don’t want to see a scratch on you, either of you.”

“We’ll be fine, Mrs. Rogers, don’t worry.” Bucky flashed her a toothy grin, one a little too sweet to be genuine. It was the same smile he shot to his teachers at school when he got caught talking in class, or the one he showed his mother when he came home with a torn shirt and a bloody lip. It was a smile that had kept both Steve and Bucky out of trouble more times than they could count, even when they both definitely deserved it.

Steve rolled his eyes. “Come on, Buck, let’s get out of here.”

The boys made their way through the Brooklyn streets, savoring the summer sunset. It left a soft golden glow on everything it touched, making even the struggling businesses and foreclosed buildings of the Depression shine like new.

“So, are you gonna tell me where we’re going?” Steve asked once they were past their familiar few blocks of the city, heading toward the edge of the city, toward the bay. Bucky simply grinned.

“You’ll see.”

He led them to a secluded spot on the waterfront, surrounded in the front by the sunset’s reflection on the water, and in the back by the soft glow of the city in the evening light. Steve already seemed content, surveying the softly lit landscape with the appraising eye of an artist, but Bucky still glanced around nervously. He’d planned everything out, this had to –

Just in time, a loud bang sounded from just down the beach, and the sky erupted with brilliant color. Steve turned to gaze raptly at the sky, the brilliant reds and blues of the fireworks dancing in the reflections of his eyes. From this spot on the beach, which Bucky had chosen just for this purpose, the explosions were so close, so real, unobstructed by anyone or anything else. Bucky was sure that the fireworks were spectacular, but he couldn’t bring himself to look. He didn’t know why, but his eyes were stuck on Steve.

Eventually, the last firework fizzled out, raining down a shower of sparks and leaving them in reverent silence. Bucky wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t want to break the spell, to extinguish the glow of Steve’s eyes.

“Happy birthday, Steve,” he finally said, feeling something inexplicable fluttering in his chest when Steve turned his wide blue eyes on him.

“Buck,” Steve said, “that was – thank you.” Bucky shook his head, searching for something else to say, but was interrupted by the hooting of partiers further down the beach. With the spell seeming broken, he settled for a simple shrug.

“Just wanted to make sure we celebrated the real important holiday today, is all.”

Steve gave his shoulder a playful shove, which he was careful not to return too enthusiastically. For all the trouble they found together, he did always strive to protect Steve, and it probably wouldn’t make for a great birthday if Steve didn’t make it home in one piece.

 

 

**July 4, 1935**

Bucky really wasn’t sure how the summers were allowed to be this hot. He couldn’t seem to find a time of day in which he wasn’t dripping with sweat, a condition which wasn’t helped by the work he’d picked up at the docks to help his family through the Depression. Even his days off, like this one, were characterized by the absolutely ungodly heat. And Bucky hated it.

“Come on, Buck,” Steve laughed, startling Bucky from his musing. He realized his disgruntlement must have been visible on his face. “This is supposed to be fun!”

Steve was right. A rare day off at Coney Island was supposed to be fun, and, more importantly, Steve’s birthday was supposed to be fun. Bucky worked to school his expression into something more pleasant.

“You’re right,” he conceded with a thin smile. “This is fun. Where to first?”

Bucky wished he could kill his bad mood that easily, but in truth, the heat wasn’t the only source of his frustration. Lately, just being with Steve, once his favorite thing in the world, was growing more and more tense. He didn’t know what the problem was, so he didn’t know how to fix it. The tension just built, and built, and built, until it had to be released.

As the day wore on, Bucky’s frustration poured out into carnival games. He took up residence at a shooting booth, glancing from the stuffed bears hanging over the range as prizes, to a group of girls clustered near the booth, then to Steve, who was watching his every move. He wanted to show off for the girls, but something about Steve’s gaze made him distracted and jittery, and he missed the target by a mile every time. Steve tried to placate him, but his efforts only served to aggravate Bucky more.

“Uh, Buck, are you sure you need to do this – again? I think it’s –” Bucky missed again – “rigged.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky bit out, tossing the toy gun down on the booth. “Just one more time.”

Steve shook his head. “C’mon, it’s not worth it. We’re not gonna have money for hot dogs at this rate.”

Bucky reluctantly followed Steve away from the booth and handed his last few pennies over for a hot dog. As his stress abated, his guilt grew.

“I’m sorry, Stevie,” he finally said, as they ate and paced lazily past the booths and vendors. “It’s your birthday. I should be happy for you. I just wanted to…” Impress those girls? No, not really. Impress you? That didn’t sound quite right, but Bucky couldn’t think of a better way to express what he was feeling, so he just let his words trail into silence.

Steve just nudged him with a knowing smile. “It’s ok, Buck. I’m just glad you got some time off. I’ve missed you lately.” Bucky swallowed hard. With the long hours he’d been working, and the invisible barriers seeming to grow between them, Bucky had missed Steve too. “It’s probably time we headed home anyway, don’t ya think?”

Bucky began to nod but stopped as he reached for the train money in his pocket. Or, rather, the train money that had just bought them carnival games and hot dogs and decidedly not train tickets.

“About that… we might have a bit of an issue.”

\---

Considering he had been the one to burn through most of their money, Bucky took it upon himself to fix said issue. Managing to hail a freezer truck heading toward Brooklyn, he herded himself and Steve into the back.

“Hey, on the bright side,” he said through chattering teeth, “least it’s not hot!”

Steve snorted. “Fair enough. Too bad ya couldn’t win me that bear earlier, might’ve kept me warm.”

Despite the temperature, Bucky felt himself blushing. “Well, maybe I can keep you warm instead.” Before he could stop himself, he draped an arm around Steve’s shoulders, rubbing warmth into the goose bumps on the smaller boy’s skin. Steve turned to look at him, half confused and half curious. Their faces were so close that Bucky could barely breathe.

Suddenly Steve leaned up and kissed him. It was so quick, so soft, that Bucky hardly realized what had happened until he felt himself leaning down to kiss Steve back. As their lips met again, the frustration inside him burst, leaving him floating in giddy relief. In the same moment, everything was confusing, and everything finally made sense.

They finally broke apart, almost afraid to meet each other’s eyes. No matter what the future held, both boys knew they had just crossed a line, and things could never be the way they’d been before. Bucky held his breath, waiting for the world to come crumbling down around him. But it didn’t. Steve just smiled.

Bucky let out a sigh of relief. “Happy birthday, Steve.” Something in Steve’s eyes said that Bucky had given him the best gift he could’ve asked for.

 

 

**July 4, 1940**

Ever since Bucky and Steve had begun living together, Bucky had been happier than ever. Although Steve’s frail stature prevented him from doing the hard work that most young men in Brooklyn supported themselves on, Bucky was more than happy to pick up the slack with his work at the docks if it meant taking care of Steve. Steve, however, didn’t seem to feel the same way, always muttering under his breath about the fairness of it all. The morning of Steve’s birthday began, not uncommonly, in such a manner, with Steve neglecting conversation over breakfast in favor of glowering at the day’s paper.

“Keep makin’ that face and it’ll stick like that,” Bucky quipped over his coffee. Steve didn’t seem to find the remark funny, fixing Bucky with a withering look before returning his eyes to the paper. “Seriously, what’s the deal?”

Steve flipped the paper around so Bucky could see the headline, detailing the conflict that he vaguely knew was blooming and spreading, a world away.

“There’s a real fight out there. People need help, and we’re doing nothing. _I’m_ doing nothing.”

“Steve, it’s not – this isn’t your fight. You’re always trying to pick a fight, but sometimes you gotta – you gotta just let it go.”

“But Buck, people are _dying_. What am I supposed to do?”

_For Christ’s sake, not die with them_ , Bucky thought, swallowing the fear he felt every time he heard about the war. It still felt distant, far away from their ratty apartment in Brooklyn, but Bucky couldn’t quell the fear that the conflict might not always seem so far away. If war found them in Brooklyn, how could he protect Steve?

But Bucky couldn’t say any of that. He couldn’t say how much he always worried about Steve, Steve and his asthma, Steve and his temper, Steve and his infuriatingly unwavering convictions. He couldn’t beg him to _let me protect you, Steve, because if something happens to you, what will happen to me?_

“I don’t fuckin’ know, Steve,” he said instead. “Read the paper. Eat your breakfast. Have a happy birthday, for Christ’s sake. Just don’t – don’t do anything stupid, for once.”

The comment was laced with far more venom than Bucky had intended, and Steve clearly felt its sting. He tossed the paper down without a word, turning and storming into the bedroom they shared and slamming the door behind him. Bucky leaned over the table in defeat, dropping his head into his hands.

He wasn’t angry with Steve. It just seemed impossible, grappling with the knowledge that he couldn’t protect Steve forever. Steve was a fighter, and Bucky could only hope that, when the fight inevitably came, it would be him, and not Steve, who bore the brunt of its wrath.

 

 

**July 4, 1944**

Bucky was pretty sure he’d never quite get used to whole Captain America thing. Throughout the beginning of his deployment, everything had revolved around getting back to New York, back to Steve. The mental image of Steve sitting safely in their apartment, sipping coffee and sketching the view out their kitchen window, had kept Bucky alive and sane through more than he’d thought we was capable of withstanding.

 Now, though, ever since Steve had rescued him from captivity under Hydra, he’d been trying to align this new version of his friend, tall and broad-shouldered, respected and feared, with the tiny, sickly kid he’d known back home. He was comforted in part by the fact that Steve still very clearly harbored the same hot temper and fighting spirit that had led them into so much trouble when they were kids, but he still felt a twinge of something like sadness when he saw Steve on the battlefield standing tall. Bucky couldn’t protect Steve like he used to. He could only hope that Steve had been given all the tools he needed to protect himself.

“Uh, Sarge, are you going to help us out here, or do we have to do this all ourselves?” Morita’s voice crackled over his radio, and Bucky quickly shook himself from his reverie. Reminiscing about Steve certainly wasn’t helpful when they were in the process of being actively shot at. He peered through the scope of his rifle at the chaos ensuing below his post.

The Howling Commandos were on a mission deep in enemy territory. Steve was leading them in the destruction of a Hydra base, but fire from enemy guards was holding them back. Bucky, as the Commandos’ sniper, was stationed on an outcropping in the forest surrounding the lab, witnessing the battle through the scope of his rifle and protecting the group – especially Steve – as best he could.

 As Bucky watched, Steve hurled his shield toward a pair of enemy soldiers lunging toward him but didn’t seem to see the marksman eyeing at him from the roof of the compound. Acting quickly, Bucky took aim, lining his target up in his sights as he watched his target set his scope on Steve. He knew he should wait until he had a clear shot, but, even at war, the thought of any harm befalling Steve surpassed all else and made Bucky’s blood boil. He didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

Luckily, despite him not having adequate time to line up the shot, Bucky’s bullet found its target. He let out an involuntary sigh of relief, and, as the marksman crumpled and disappeared from view, turned his attention immediately back to Steve.

“Thanks, Buck.” This time it was Steve’s voice crackling over the radio, undercut by a grunt as his shield made contact with another enemy soldier. “I owe ya one.” In the heat of battle, Steve turned to give a quick salute to the spot where he knew Bucky was stationed.

“Yeah ya do,” Bucky snorted. “Do me a favor and don’t get yourself killed today. I don’t think that’d make for a very happy birthday.”

“All due respect, guys, but can we save celebrating Rogers’s birthday until we _know_ we’re not all gonna die?” Dugan grunted. “I’m still not liking my chances out here.”

“Roger that,” Bucky replied, turning his attention back to the field. Until the fight was over, whenever that may be, he knew his mission. Protect his fellow soldiers. Protect his friends. Protect Steve above everything, no matter what it cost him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Mission Report, July 4, 2010**

“Mission report.” A man in a white lab coat stands over the Soldier, who is strapped to a chair, unmoving. He gives no indication of having heard the command. “Soldier. Mission report, July 4, 2010.”

The Soldier is confused. He doesn’t recall the mission, doesn’t know if it succeeded or failed. Something is eating away at him. He’s missing something, something important, but he can’t quite remember what it is.

The man in the lab coat draws his hand back and strikes the Soldier across the face. “This lack of compliance will not be tolerated, Soldier. You have already failed your mission. This in itself is cause for punishment. To further disobey orders and withhold information would be extremely unwise.”

The Soldier doesn’t respond. Fear crawls through him at the mentions of failure, of punishment. He knows those words only as precursors of pain. But even that slowly blooming terror can’t override the notion that there’s _something more important_ that he needs to be doing. He just needs to think. He has to remember, _he has to_ –

“Last chance, Soldier,” the man warns. “Mission report, July 4, 2010.”

The Soldier can feel it now, this hint of a memory, about to be ripped away from him like every other whim he’s ever come so close to grasping. His mouth twitches, trying to form a response, trying to satisfy his captor in some way to stave off what he knows is coming.

All that comes out is a strangled, “Please.”

The command sounds from somewhere out of the Soldier’s line of sight. “Wipe him.”

As the chair he’s strapped to roars to life, the Soldier pulls against his restraints, even though he knows it’s futile to resist. Machinery shudders into motion, and he holds onto the faded memory as tightly as he can. He knew someone once, a boy with blond hair and blue eyes and a nasty temper and – _Happy Birthday, Steve._

His mind erupts into blazing agony, burning through his memories, scattering them like fading sparks of fireworks falling toward a summer beach. Just like that, the haunting sliver of a memory is gone. But tucked away in the back of the Soldier's brain, in a corner that Hydra's technology can't reach, the Soldier still knows he's missing something. And, one day, he's going to make up for it.

 

 


End file.
